


The waves come forward, we are traveling together

by sadwhales



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwhales/pseuds/sadwhales
Summary: Ian remembers the first time Mickey ever smiled at him.or,On the night of their wedding, Ian and Mickey talk a little bit about the past, and surprisingly, their feelings.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 47
Kudos: 541





	The waves come forward, we are traveling together

**Author's Note:**

> Some drinking, some talk of medication, but it's very light.
> 
> Title from the poem "The Swimmer" by Louise Glück.

When Ian is fifteen, Mickey Milkovich throws him an over-the-shoulder grin and saunters straight from the door towards the storage room of Kash and Grab, smug and overconfident, not even pausing to check if Ian follows him. Ian does, of course, scrambles up from the register so fast he bangs his knee on a sharp corner. Only later, when he’s pulling his jeans back on and trying not to stare at Mickey’s lips around a cigarette as he rummages through his pockets for a lighter, does he realize it’s the first time Mickey’s smiled at him. At that point he’s been watching too long, because Mickey shoulder-checks him out of his way, calls out “See ya, Gallagher” without turning around and disappears through the metal door.

By the time Ian’s sixteen, he’s spent more time than he’d ever admit categorizing and decrypting Mickey’s smiles, secretly hoping against his better judgement that there are some reserved for Ian alone. He knows it’s stupid as shit to get romantic over a few fucks (okay, a _lot_ of fucks) and a couple of shared joints, especially when it comes to Mickey Milkovich, but no one really has to know, Ian figures. Mickey definitely doesn’t.

The easiest one, the one Mickey always gives without a second thought, is the fuck-me -smile, lopsided and youthful. Ian gets it under the cover of the night in the dugout and in broad daylight, over the store’s register, and it works every time. Mickey knows it too, often already tugging at Ian’s jeans while grinning up at him like a fucking shark. Ian doesn’t know if Mickey smiles at Angie Zago, but he hopes he doesn’t.

Mickey smiles when he’s pissed, as a warning sign, expression tightening along with his fists. It’s usually at guys who aren’t Ian. Mickey does it when he asks about Ned, his laugh strained and eyes cold, does it before he beats the guy up. Ian shouldn’t like it, but it’s hard not to when it’s as good as Mickey admitting he’s jealous.

One of Ian’s favorites is the combo of an eye roll and a smile, sometimes accompanied by a little huff or a shake of head. Ian earns it by making a stupid joke that he _knows_ Mickey finds kind of funny but doesn’t want to give Ian the satisfaction of saying it. Ian doesn’t really understand it, since Mickey’s never been that subtle, but usually lets him put up the walls he thinks he needs. Stubborn fucking dick.

Ian knows which one is his least favorite when he’s sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chair of the prison visiting room, phone clutched in his hand.

“You gonna wait for me?” Mickey asks. He’s smiling, kind of, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ian doesn’t want to be here. He looks at Mickey and can only think of the psych ward, the muted, colorless emotion the medication provides, the feeling of everyone’s pitying eyes on him.

Mickey tells him to lie and Ian avoids his gaze. He’s getting back on his meds and things are settling, probably. Everything is still somewhat hazy and weird, but Ian feels a distant pinch of guilt when he promises “Yeah, Mick, I’ll wait”, and knows he doesn’t mean it.

Mickey must also know he doesn’t mean it, but there’s some unnamed emotion on his face when he blinks at Ian through the window. Suddenly Ian can’t take it anymore, he can’t fucking look at Mickey a moment longer. He goes, without looking back and without saying goodbye.

* * *

Ian is twenty-three and married. It feels simultaneously like it’s happened so fast he hasn’t had time to even begin processing it, and like he’s been waiting for this his whole life. Everything isn’t clear and easy and solved, not by a long shot, and maybe some things never will be, but it’s a hell of a place to start. _I have a fucking husband,_ Ian thinks, at the wheel of the Mercedes, _fuck you, world, I have a fucking husband and I can take any shit you throw at me._

He glances at Mickey. There, on the passenger seat, windswept and relaxed, he looks like something Ian dreamt up. He doesn’t say this out loud, because Mickey will roll his eyes and call him a pussy even though Ian suspects Mickey wouldn’t really mind hearing it.

Mickey glances back, smiles and juts his chin. He has his arm thrown around Ian’s seat, and he brushes his fingers lightly against Ian’s neck, then tugs at his collar.

“Where we headed?” Mickey asks.

“Well”, Ian says. “There’s an after-party at the Alibi.”

Mickey groans. “You want me to hang with your family our entire goddamn wedding day?”

“Hey, they’re your family now, too.”

Mickey makes a disgusted noise, but Ian’s not fooled. He peeks at Mickey, grins until Mickey cracks a smile of his own. “Fucking sappy bitch”, he says.

“We don’t really have to go to the Alibi”, Ian says. “I kind of wanna be with you, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Mickey quirks a brow, like he doesn’t know.

Ian reaches over to shove at him, then takes a turn that steers them further from the city.

“You got something planned?” Mickey asks.

“I do, actually”, Ian admits, and then says nothing else.

* * *

The drive is relatively short, and Mickey only has time to get a little impatient. Ian takes them just far enough from Chicago’s noise and pulls up on the side of a field. It’s nearing dusk, golden light trickling towards the horizon, a night sky waiting to open up over them. They won’t see the stars properly, they’re still too close to the city. _There’s time,_ Ian thinks, _we’ll go somewhere we can see all of them, every star in the sky, even fucking planets, if we want to._ Well, they will, as soon as they’re allowed to leave the state.

Mickey eyes him curiously when he parks the car, then twists around to watch Ian get out, and pop open the trunk. His eyebrows shoot up when Ian hauls two thick blankets into the backseat and waves a bottle of sparkling wine in his direction.

“Really?” Mickey says, smile wide and sort of disbelieving. “A picnic?”

Ian snorts. “Not sure it’s a picnic if we only have booze.”

Mickey’s still staring at him when he climbs into the backseat. Ian smacks the leather seat beside him. “Come the fuck on. We’ve watched the sunset before.”

They have. Back when Ian nearly followed him to Mexico. They’d spread out a blanket and drunk beer and stared up at the darkening sky. Ian hadn’t just felt like he was living, but like he was _alive_ , burning with it, unable to decide if it was painful or exhilarating.

Mickey’s probably thinking of the same thing, because his expression softens and he’s climbing over the seats to Ian, pressing close and pulling him into a slow kiss. Mickey curls his hand into Ian’s hair and breathes through his nose, air warm on Ian’s cheek.

“This’ll be better”, he says when he pulls away. “We got our shit together this time, right?”

Ian chuckles. “That might be an overstatement.”

“Hey, haven’t seen you leading any cults lately”, Mickey says and rubs a thumb across Ian’s cheekbone.

Instead of replying, Ian leans in, framing Mickey’s face with his hands and kisses him again. He wants to take the whole night, all of the time in the world, make up for all that was lost, because nothing else is this important to do properly.

When they pull apart, Ian watches Mickey’s eyes flutter open, lashes brushing against his cheeks nearly invisible in the low light. Their pulses thrum together quietly. Mickey’s looking up at him with the same smile he’s been wearing surprisingly often in the last couple days.

The sun has crawled nearly all the way across the sky and the air is getting chilly. Ian lets go of Mickey in order to pull one of the blankets around his own shoulders, then drape the other one over Mickey’s.

“Calm down, Romeo”, Mickey says, but tightens the fabric around himself before tugging off his bowtie and throwing it across the seat. “Give me the bottle.”

Ian grabs the wine and hands it over. It’s not champagne, but it’s supposed to be one of those upper-shelf bottles, though Ian’s pretty sure neither of them will be able to tell by the taste. But it’s the gesture that counts, right?

Mickey’s examining the bottle suspiciously. “This any good?”

Ian shrugs. He knows next to nothing about wines, and he’s pretty sure he’s never seen Mickey drink anything but beer and hard liquor. He’d just felt like the occasion called for something more special.

“Supposed to be”, he says. “Just pretend you have working taste buds for a moment.”

Mickey grins and thwacks Ian with the fancy wine. “Fuck you.”

Ian watches, warm inside and out, as Mickey shoots the cork into the field and chugs the liquid straight from the bottle.

“Good?” Ian asks.

Mickey makes a little _mmh_ sound, which means he’s impressed.

“You good to drink?” he asks and offers the bottle to Ian.

“Yeah, I can have a little”, Ian takes it, brushes his fingers across Mickey’s knuckles just because he can. “I didn’t have that much at the venue.” He’s gotten pretty good at keeping track of how much and how often he can drink with his meds, doesn’t even need to write it down anymore. He’s also working on not being pissed off when people try to make sure he’s handling his shit. He knows Mickey has a right as well as a reason to be worried.

Ian takes a swig. It’s pretty sweet, and he’s kind of surprised Mickey likes it. Maybe Ian’s just naturally tuned in to his husband’s preferences.

He hands the wine back to Mickey, who takes another long drink and curls back against Ian, tucking his head under Ian’s chin. He folds one leg against himself, and his hand finds Ian’s where it’s resting on his lap. Ian takes it, thumbs at the ring on Mickey’s finger. It feels unreal, but in a good way. He’ll wake up tomorrow, and he’ll be married. He’ll go to work next week, and he’ll have a ring on his finger, and everyone will know what it means. He’ll come home from work to his husband. _Husband._ Ian’s almost looking forward to throwing the word around in every conversation possible. It’s ridiculous, but he’s so fucking proud. It doesn’t mean he’s stopped being scared, but he isn’t _uncertain_. They’re in this together. They’re taking the exact same risks, the same leap of faith, they’re putting everything on the line. Some of it is terrifying, but Ian’s willing to put all of his faith in Mickey.

“The fuck are you thinking so hard about?” Mickey murmurs.

“Just my _husband_ ”, Ian says and kisses Mickey’s hair. Mickey squeezes his fingers under the blankets.

They don’t talk for a while, just watch the sun dip beneath the horizon, swap lazy kisses and pass the bottle of wine between them. Mickey ends up drinking nearly all of it; Ian still intends to drive them back at some point.

When the bottle is empty, Mickey tosses it at their feet and climbs fully onto the seat, on his knees, and leans into Ian with a newfound determination. He’s smiling hard when he drapes himself over Ian, his teeth bared and eyes shining. He looks so _tender_ , and it’s almost at odds with how vigorously he kisses Ian.

Mickey pulls him in by the lapels of his tux. The shape of his mouth is imprinted on Ian’s muscle memory, and he’s still smiling when their lips press together, so Ian licks at his teeth, tasting the sparkling wine.

Ian wants him closer, splays his hands on Mickey’s waist and tugs him nearly all the way into his lap. The blanket slips off from around Mickey, pools at his feet on the leather seat.

Their mouths slide together, Mickey’s nose presses into his cheek, and Ian closes his eyes. It’s not urgent or desperate, it’s not a final anything. They’re not trying to make a memory, because now they’ll have this every day.

Mickey’s hands move from Ian’s chest to his face. His palms are rough and warm as he tilts Ian’s chin up to make the angle easier. Ian strokes up and down Mickey’s sides, holds him steady, tries to tell him everything he doesn’t yet have the words for. It’s insane, that they’ve been a _thing_ , more or less, for almost ten years, and Ian’s still not sure how to vocalize some of the things he has on his mind. It’s not a bad thing, always, because they both understand touch when they are patient enough to listen. And, well, not like Mickey’s exactly an expert on constructive communication, either. But they’re working on it, and Ian’s determined to work through it or around it or whatever they need.

Ian hikes himself further up on the seat, pushes a knee between Mickey’s legs. Mickey makes a noise, and one hand tightens in Ian’s hair. Ian’s own hands wander beneath the white jacket, feeling the shape of his husband through the layer of clothes.

Then Mickey is leaning back, pulling Ian along with him. Ian fumbles to rid himself of his own blanket and tries to follow Mickey without breaking the kiss. It doesn’t really work, with Ian’s fucked up leg and the cramped backseat, and he ends up laughing into the crook of Mickey’s neck between the kisses he presses there while attempting to follow him down.

Both horizontal, Ian’s left leg hanging awkwardly over the seat and Mickey’s hands still on Ian’s jaw, they pull apart to look at each other.

“Hey”, Ian says, sounding so stupid and cheesy, and so fucking _happy_.

“Hey yourself”, Mickey says back, voice barely above a whisper. Then he slides a hand lower, across Ian’s stomach, lets his legs fall open. “This your plan? Get your date drunk on some fancy wine so you’d get some?” He accentuates the words by hooking an ankle behind Ian’s thigh and nudging him closer to press their hips together.

And Christ, Ian _wants._ He wants to hike Mickey’s legs up on his waist, put his mouth on his neck and fuck Mickey in the backseat of the Mercedes-Benz. But.

“Shit”, Ian grits out. “No. Can’t. My fucking leg, can’t even get it up on the seat. There’s not enough space. Also, I’m betting Frank isn’t stashing lube in the glove compartment.”

“Ah, shit”, Mickey groans, making a face. “Guess you’re right.”

“Besides, it’s our wedding night”, Ian says. “I wanna do this properly, get in a real bed. We’ll get plenty of chances to fuck in backseats.”

Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s neck, disappointment fading some. “Aren’t you a romantic?” Then he sighs. “Would be fucking nice to have a proper place we could go. I’m tired of screwing in a room with million goddamn people coming and going through the door all the time.”

“Oh, we’re not going back to the house. Wedding night, you know, it’s got to be special.”

Mickey stares at him. “Where the fuck we going, then?”

“Well, I got us a hotel room”, Ian says, a bit smug. “Like, a real hotel, I think there’s a mini fridge and everything.”

Mickey drops his hands, sits halfway up. “Shit! Right! That’s what you’re supposed to do! I didn’t even think about that.”

“Hey”, Ian says and catches his hand, presses it onto the seat next to his head. “I got it, alright? You were so busy with the, uh, chairs and shit. Had to pull my weight.”

“That right?” Mickey says, mouth pulling into a smile again, eyes flicking up to meet Ian’s. There are laugh lines on the corners, and Ian’s willing to bet they’ll be permanently etched into Mickey’s skin when he’s older.

“Yeah. You wanna go?”

Mickey surprises him. “In a minute”, he says and puts a hand on Ian’s back. “I’m liking the peace and quiet. C’mere.”

Ian does, lowers himself carefully and curls half on top of Mickey on the narrow seat, lays a hand over his heart. Mickey still doesn’t stop smiling, and Ian presses a thumb on the corner of his mouth.

“You’re all sunshine and rainbows today.”

“Fuck off”, Mickey says with a huff of laughter. “And you’re not?”

“’Course I am. Just. I’m starting to forget how your face looks normally.”

Mickey’s silent for a while. The night is still and quiet, too, the city’s hum miles away. A few stars glimmer in the darkness.

Ian thinks they’ve left the conversation, when Mickey replies. “I’m fucking happy, man. I’m really fucking happy.”

“I know”, Ian says. “Me too.”

He shivers lightly, and Mickey reaches an arm to fish one of the blankets from the floor, throws it over them both.

“You know”, Ian starts, a little embarrassed. “When we were kids, I really liked it when you smiled.”

They’re _married_ , but it feels like a big thing to say. Ian almost wishes he’d said something else instead.

Mickey, though, turns to face him, looking genuinely surprised.

“What?”

“You know, back when we were…” Ian trails off. _Back when we were fucking non-stop and pretending it was all casual. Back when you were scared all the time and trying so hard not to care. Back when I was already falling in love with you and thought I knew everything about everything. You know, back then._

Mickey seems to understand what Ian is getting at, because he whispers a soft “yeah” into the space between them and squeezes Ian’s arm to get him to continue.

“Yeah”, Ian echoes. “I don’t remember you ever smiling, at least when you came around the shop to steal all our shit.”

He pauses, and Mickey huffs a quiet laugh. “Well, had to be fucking intimidating so you’d let me steal all your shit in peace.”

“I was never intimidated by you”, Ian says, peeks at Mickey smugly.

“Yeah, I know”, Mickey says, rolling his eyes but smiling wide. “A fucking idiot, that’s what you were. Had the nerve to fucking barge into my room for a goddamn gun, thinking I wouldn’t shoot you on sight.”

“You didn’t. Let me shoot something somewhere instead.”

“Jesus Christ”, Mickey groans. He’s laughing.

Ian’s feeling all warm and giddy now, not that different from the way he first started to feel at fifteen, the way he’d later learn he only ever felt around Mickey. He draws in a deep breath.

“But when we, uh. Started hanging out. You’d smile around me, sometimes, or _at_ me.” Ian doesn’t say he remembers the _exact_ first time Mickey has smiled at him. “And I guess I was a fucking idiot, because I spent an eternity trying to figure out if it meant something.”

Mickey’s looking at him carefully now, like he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the rest. But Ian needs him to.

“I liked it so fucking much”, he continues, words soft and quiet. “I liked knowing how you felt, I liked that you didn’t need to be intimidating when we were together. I really fucking liked that I could make you feel like that.”

When Ian pauses again, he feels Mickey’s chest expanding as he breathes, solid and sort of shaky.

“I always thought that maybe you didn’t smile that much with anyone else. I wanted to think that I was special or something.”

“Of course you fucking were”, Mickey says immediately. He doesn’t really sound annoyed, only a bit disbelieving. “You know. Special.” He brings a hand to trace Ian’s cheek. “The fuck you think I had to fucking smile about before you, huh?”

And that makes sense, obviously, knowing what Ian knows of Mickey’s family, his childhood in the South Side, but he’s never thought about it like that. That it wasn’t just Mickey getting comfortable _around_ Ian at some point, but Mickey opening up, feeling good enough to smile that often possibly for the first time in his _life_. That it _really_ was for Ian, all of it, practically.

This is Mickey practically telling him that Ian was the first good thing that happened to him.

Jesus. It’s a terrifying thought, somehow, and Ian’s not sure how to feel. He’s torn between getting hung up on the romanticism of hearing how much he meant to Mickey even back then and being tight-chested with sadness upon thinking about Mickey’s life being so lonely and miserable for years. He can’t really say that out loud, because Mickey always gets uncomfortable and irritated when people show sympathy for him, even if it’s just Ian. Even if Ian’s desire to kick the shit out of every motherfucker who’s ever hurt Mickey has nothing to do with Ian feeling sorry for him.

Ian’s eyes are stinging a bit already, and though Mickey probably doesn’t know which direction Ian’s thoughts have taken, he can obviously see something’s up, because his face goes all soft and concerned.

“Hey”, he says, his hand moving to stroke the short hairs at the nape of Ian’s neck. Ian squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, thinks about back then and right now, tries to draw a connecting line between that Mickey Milkovich and this one. Ian couldn’t have, not then, although he hoped for things similar to this pretty frequently.

“You alright?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah”, Ian tells him, and it’s true, more than true. “Just. A big day, you know. It’s crazy.”

“I know”, Mickey says, and he’s grinning again, sort of awed, like he’d forgotten about getting married for a while and now he’s surprised by it. Much like when he was fifteen, Ian hopes Mickey never stops smiling.

“You remember”, Ian begins, his own mouth quirking up at the corners, suddenly needing to tell Mickey this. “You remember when you got out of juvie for the second time?”

Mickey nods. “Mm, well, the second time that you know of. The real second time was when I was, like, twelve.” His smile turns sharp, amused, eyes crinkling. “I remember _you_ screwing some pussy of a G.I. under the bleachers, in broad daylight, like a moron.”

Ian remembers that too. He has next to no memory of what the guy even looked like, but he remembers the brief panic at the thought of getting caught, the jolt of seeing Mickey again so unexpectedly. Truthfully, he hadn’t been sure if Mickey would want anything to do with him after he got out that time, so he’d told himself he wouldn’t wait around, wouldn’t hold any expectations. Despite that, the relief he’d felt when Mickey had stalked towards them with his usual air of cocky confidence had been startling and dizzying.

Ian definitely remembers the way Mickey looked, clean-shaven unlike the last time Ian had seen him. His pale, exposed shoulders nearly white in the blinding sunlight, the blue of his irises vibrant as Ian worked to catch his eye. His arms had filled out a bit during his time in juvie, but otherwise the shape of his body had been familiar and easy under Ian’s hands.

Now, Ian smiles at the memory and doesn’t mention that he hadn’t apparently been a moron any longer when Mickey had been the one getting fucked under the bleachers. That’s not really what he wanted to tell Mickey, anyway.

“Yeah”, he continues, ignoring Mickey’s comment but meeting his eyes. “I was… I missed you. Like crazy, when you were gone. I was kind of worried that you wouldn’t want to see me again because of Frank and shit.”

“You know me, can’t fucking keep away.”

Mickey says it teasingly, but Ian does know. Mickey has found him countless times, come back or ran after him, searched him from the crowd. Ian reaches up to touch him, curls his hand around his ear and rests a thumb on his cheekbone.

“I asked Mandy”, Ian says, nearly surprising himself. “When you got out and we started hanging out again, I asked Mandy if there’s a way to know if a guy likes you.” It sounds fucking stupid, and Ian’s cheeks feel hot. “Like a fucking teenage girl”, he adds, so Mickey doesn’t have to.

And Mickey’s definitely amused now. He stares at Ian with one eyebrow cocked, like he’s invested in the story.

“And what’d she say?”

“She told me that the guy gets this look in his eye when he likes you.”

That’s clearly not the answer Mickey was expecting. He looks startled for a second, and then he’s smiling again.

“Really? What kinda look?”

“She wouldn’t tell me”, says Ian, also smiling and unable to stop. “Said I’d know it when I saw it.”

“You ever see it, then?” asks Mickey, that fuckhead, the love of Ian’s life. “Ever find out if the guy liked you?”

“I think I did”, says Ian, voice barely above a whisper. He strokes Mickey’s face, barely feels the cold of the night through the warmth in his chest and can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed anymore with Mickey looking at him like that. It feels ridiculous that he’s ever spent time racking his brain over whether Mickey likes him or not, because Ian’s known this exact look for _years_.

Mickey blows out a choppy breath, half a laugh and half something else.

“Fucking Mandy”, he says, finally breaks eye contact and glances at the sky. “She would give you girly shit advice like that.”

He’s still smiling, but Ian can tell that Mickey’s clearly had enough talking of feelings for one night. Ian can also tell that he misses Mandy, another thing you could never get Mickey to admit. As siblings, they were never as close as the Gallaghers, or even as close as Ian and Mandy, but growing up together in the extraordinarily fucked up Milkovich household surely means something.

“Yeah”, Ian says. “Would’ve been nice if she was here.”

“Yeah”, Mickey echoes. “So I could’ve called her out on her shitty advice.” His words are soft, though, and Ian knows what he means.

They lie there quietly, curled together in the backseat, for a minute, maybe for Mandy. Eventually, Mickey stirs under Ian and says: “Let’s get going, then. Don’t want that fancy hotel room to go to waste.”

Pushing off of Mickey and stepping outside to get back behind the wheel, Ian watches Mickey climb over the seats again and sit beside him. He doesn’t seem too bothered about stepping on the expensive leather.

Before he starts the engine and makes a U-turn to steer them back towards the city, Ian takes a moment to stare at his husband unabashedly once more. Mickey’s dress shirt is crumpled, tie gone, hair messed up at the top. He’s smiling, _again, still_. Ian just stares, probably looking like a fucking idiot. They’re both probably fucking idiots, and it’s a miracle they actually ended up where they are now. They did, though, and after everything they’ve been through, Ian doesn’t want to take it for granted. He doesn’t want to take any more shots in the dark.

Driving them through the night, back from this weird little universe they’ve spent the evening of their wedding day in, Ian feels like he really doesn’t have to guess anymore.


End file.
